Disappointing
by Lampito
Summary: The nun's been boned, Dick's been... dedicked, and Dean and Cas have disappeared, without leaving a note or anything, which is just plain rude, if you ask Sam... a one-shot.


Painkillers. I'm taking them for my knee. Blame painkillers. And the boring meeting I was trapped in. That definitely contributed. It was either write this, gnaw through my own leg, or bash that idiot to death with his own laser pointer.

Je ne regrette rien.

**DISCLAIMER:** They're not mine, otherwise I'd have had them Hulk-smash the fourth wall and beat that Gamble woman to death with her own laptop by now.

**TITLE:** Disappointing

**RATING:** T. For Deanspeak.

**SUMMARY:** The nun's been boned, and Dick's been dedicked, and... Dean and Castiel have disappeared, without even leaving a note, which is just plain rude. If S7.23 had taken place in the Jimiverse, what would have happened next..."

**EXCUSE:** I blame the Denizens who are always asking about how certain canon events fit into the Jimiverse. (Often they don't. Or if they do, we have to cut bits off and stuff them in and bang them with a mallet to make them fit.) And the painkillers. And the meeting. And the moron with the laser pointer.

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE ADDED A FEW HOURS AFTER PUBLICATION:**_

A reviewer named 'ebonylovesdeanandsam' would like you all to know that this fic is **not funny**. A carefully considered opinion, as her reviews will show you. So, consider yourself warned. (She would also like you to know that she hates Castiel and Meg and hopes they both die. Bees are not mentioned.)

Le sigh. I have met the enemy, and they are illiterate. Possibly also thirteen years old, with ADHD and an IQ of room temperature (Celsius, not Farenheit). Another unfortunate result of the program to get special schools linked to the interwebs, I fear.

* * *

"Dean?"

Sam looked around, hating the way his voice sounded about five years old.

"Dean?"

Nope, no Dean.

"Dean!"

Dean stubbornly persisted in his absence. What a jerk.

"DEAN!"

A situation of Deanlessness continued.

Sam drew breath to release an agonised howl of 'DEEEEEEEEEEEAN!' that would tug at the heartstrings of the most cynical disparager of fanservice, but before his eyebrows could turn up in the middle to make him look like a lost little puppy, there was a pop of displaced air, a rustle of feathers, and a flap of trench coat.

"Dean! Cas!" Sam felt himself sag with relief. "What... where the hell did you go?"

"Nowhere to which I would care to return," Castiel said curtly. "The whole experience was most disappointing."

"It totally sucked ass," agreed Dean grumpily.

"The scenery was decidedly underwhelming," Castiel went on. "There was a decided lack of grand, sweeping vistas of breathtaking majesty."

"The beer was lousy," Dean griped, "The liquor was worse, and as for that crap that they laughingly described as 'scotch', well, don't even get me started."

"The weather was most inclement," Castiel informed Sam, "My coat got wet, my vessel's hair got wet, and I believe I may be evolving an entirely new species of fungus in my left shoe."

"Tofu chips," Dean growled, "I don't believe they had the hide to try to tell me that tofu chips were bar snacks! The only reason anyone would drop tofu in hot oil would be to salt and burn it! They've never heard of potatoes! And I don't care if you batter them first, Brussels sprouts will never, NEVER be snacks!"

"Allusions to colourful local culture, fascinating local customs and traditional dress were completely misleading," Castiel almost humphed, "And in hindsight, I now have some respect for the Queen of England, for the stoic resolve with which she can sit through four days of folk dancing during her Commonwealth state visits."

"Snuggies!" snapped Dean, "It's not sane! Nobody should wear Snuggies, ever!"

"The queues for everything were terrible," Castiel opined, "And the service was spectacularly substandard."

"The women were ugly, and what passed for beer was warm," Dean muttered.

"The postcard I sent to Crowley was expensive to buy and to mail," complained Castiel, "And I predict that it will not reach him for another six weeks."

"This is his fault," Dean humphed, "Look at this glossy brochure, he said, I've checked out investment properties there, he said, it's a real eye-opener, he said. I'll open his eyes next time I see him, preferably with a very pointy object..."

"The populace were not at all welcoming," Castiel sniffed, "I understand that they are wary of strangers, but it costs nothing to be civil. Would it really have been so difficult to say 'hello' before attempting to remove my head from my shoulders?"

"It's not the attempts to kill me that I mind," Dean clarified, "But it's the rank stupidity that's just an insult. I hacked off so many heads, limbs and tentacly things, I don't think I'll be able to move my arm for three days."

"In conclusion, it is one of the most unappealing sojourns I have ever taken," Castiel finished. "Even Hell was less... disappointing."

"That's the last time I let you navigate," Dean humphed.

"I am sorry, Dean," Castiel apologised. "In hindsight, I suppose it is like that for a reason."

"Come on, I need a drink, and we'd better... oh, hey, Sammy," Dean smiled at his baby brother. "Er, are you okay bro?"

"Eeeeeerp," went Sam.

"Great!" because I need a drink. And from the look of you, so do you. Oh, I nearly forgot," he said brightly, "I got you a present! It's got some goo on it, but it's still okay."

It did indeed have goo on it.

Sam berated Dean all the way back to their crappy motel room, for scaring the crap out of him, for giving him a present with goo on it, and just on general principles. He put his begooed present straight into the stuff that needed laundering.

However, he couldn't stay mad at his big brother for long, and a week later when he was looking for something clean to wear, he decided to try it on.

Which is how he came to be wearing a shirt reading, 'MY BIG BROTHER AND HIS ANGEL BUDDY WENT TO PURGATORY AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT'.

_**fin**_

* * *

The bunny for 'Pack Up Your Troubles' has been a bit reticent recently; I can only surmise that, if this one was hopping around in the general vicinity, it's been cowering behind the couch or something.

Is he still talking? Crud, I'm bored. And if he uses the words 'benchmarking' or 'space' or 'ownership' one more, I may have to commit murder. Are you allowed ffn access in prison?


End file.
